Time's Up
by Fredrica
Summary: Prologue only. TU published 5th April, 2017. Darcy's world implodes when his mistress declares she's marrying a duke and his Uncle Fitzwilliam, the Earl of Matlock, insists he should do his duty and marry to produce an heir. HEA but angsty.
1. TU prologue: Ch 1

**Expanded synopsis **

**Darcy employed Mrs Annesley instead of Mrs Younge, so Georgiana visited Ramsgate without incident. When Darcy arrives at Netherfield with his friend Bingley, he is in a bad mood for an entirely different reason: his mistress of seven years, with whom he has fallen hopelessly in love, has abandoned him to marry a duke. If Darcy thought he was having a wretched Tuesday after visiting Diana, things suddenly become worse, when he arrives at his uncle's townhouse only to discover the earl, who generally leads a very dissipated life, has suddenly become concerned for the future. Darcy's uncle reminds him that he needs to marry and provide an heir for the Pemberley Estate. His cousin Richard, who had no plans to marry, finds himself in a similar boat, but without a paddle. His elder brother has produced only daughters, so it may be up to him to sire the next earl. He now has the unenviable task of convincing a lady to marry a second son with no expectations. Temporarily escaping the debacle, the cousins accompany Darcy's friend Bingley to his newly leased estate in Hertfordshire so that Darcy can help his friend pursue his father's dream that his son become a member of the landed gentry. Fitzwilliam, who is more at home with business decisions, must navigate his way through the most important social decision of his life, with nearly disastrous consequences.**

Leaving her lover sprawled in her bed, Diana rose, pulled on a sumptuous wrap and tidied her auburn hair. Walking back to the bed, she contemplated the example of male beauty lying there. He looked so young when he was asleep, exhausted from their recent exertions. His magnificent body was that of a Greek god, though his unlined face, with its strong jaw and slightly hooked nose, was more reminiscent of Mars than Apollo. His dark curls were tousled adorably. Despite the opportunities that modern clothes afforded men to enhance their physiques, he looked best without a stitch on.

Dragging the bed hangings closest to the door shut noisily, she tugged the bell-pull and sat down on the mattress near him. He still did not stir.

A knock was heard and a maid appeared. Her eyes downcast, she placed a tray containing a bottle and two glasses on a small table just inside the door and withdrew.

Diana walked to the table, filled the two flutes with champagne and returned to the bed.

"Fitzwilliam," she said, shaking his shoulder.

Darcy opened one eye.

"Have some champagne," she said, handing him a glass.

He raised himself on an elbow.

"What's the occasion?" he asked. "Your birthday is not 'til next week."

"A celebration," she said with a wistful smile, "of our last kiss."

Darcy froze. "Why, our last kiss?"

"I'm getting married."

"What!" Darcy bolted up. "To who?"

"The Duke of Redford."

"Bertie Thomas?" blurted Darcy. "He's as old as the hills!"

The duke was in fact a respectable fifty-five.

"You can't be serious!" Darcy continued. "You're terminating our relationship?"

"He's going to make an honest woman of me, Darcy. He's made a very good offer."

"You can't do this! Marry me instead!"

"You know we can't do that, Darcy. I'm seven years older than you - too old to bear a child. The Duke already has an heir and several spares from his first marriage. You need an heir for Pemberley."

"You can't do this," he repeated stubbornly. "I love you!"

"I'm doing this because I love you. You'll thank me in the future."

"Please, Diana, no! Plenty of women over thirty-five have children."

"Some do. But you forget that I was married for over five years to the marquis without issue."

"It might have been him!"

"He had a child out of wedlock during that time, Darcy."

"I'll get a special licence. We can get married right away!"

"No, Darcy, we can't. Be sensible. Drink your champagne."

"I won't."

"You're being a child."

"I'm not."

"I think you had better go," sighed Diana. She had known this was not going to be easy, but she had been determined to do it in person - sending a letter was so shabby.

"This is because I don't have a title, isn't it?" he said softly.

"Don't be ridiculous," she replied.

"You married a marquis, and now you've worked your way up to a duke. Plain old Mr Darcy is not good enough for you."

"Please stop," she said, stroking his hand.

He was not to be mollified. "You do realise Pemberley is one of the grandest estates in Derbyshire? In England!"

"This is not about titles or estates, Fitzwilliam. It's about being sensible. We had seven good years. Now it's time to move on."

Darcy stood chewing his lip, his mind in turmoil. It would be humiliating to burst out crying.

"This is not finished," he managed to croak. "My uncle has summoned me, but I will be back tomorrow to talk sense to you."

He moved to kiss her and she submitted. It was a passionate kiss that drew on all their sensual experiences of the last seven years. He was determined to show Diana how wrong she was.

Pulling on his clothes, he allowed her to tie his cravat. Then he fled downstairs, demanding his hat and cane.

After Darcy left, Diana cried on her bed for half an hour. When her tears were exhausted, she got up and retrieved his letters from her bureau. They were tied together with a red ribbon.

Lying back down in the bed she reread these love notes, most of them written from his estate of Pemberley, where he withdrew for the summer to supervise the harvest. The letters were not poetic, but heartfelt. As she read she smiled and played with a locket round her neck that contained a curl of his hair. Finally, getting up, she walked to the fire and consigned the letters to the flames. Opening the locket, the curl followed.

Then she rang for her maid to ready her for Lady Montagu's soirée.

**As a supplement to the story I have collected a set of illustrations on Pinterest. Just google Times Up Fredrica123 to find it. Vols I-III are now up in correct order; while my sandbox, TimesUpDates, is in reverse order, so you fill need to scroll to the end and flip backwards through it.**


	2. TU prologue: Ch 2

Darcy walked along the square and turned the corner into Mount Street, wondering how his world had been turned upside down. How could something that had become so central to his life evaporate in an instant?

It had all started in his first season. His father had died during his last year at Cambridge. He'd already finished the two years of a gentleman's degree, but his professors had encouraged him to stay on to finish the full degree. They said he had a first-rate mind.

His third year had, of course, been abandoned when his father dropped dead of an apoplexy. He'd posted north immediately. So that was it. Just shy of his twenty-first birthday he'd become Master of Pemberley and guardian of a nine-year old sister he barely knew.

Then his uncle - the Earl of Matlock, and one of his trustees; had sent him down to London to look for a wife. His aunt had arranged everything: the dancing masters, the new clothes suitable for balls and soirées, the valet. It was a foreign world. They'd told him he was comely enough, handsome even; that he would be a catch, but he'd hated it all from the moment he attended his first ball at Almack's. He hated the women. They seemed to fall into two groups: the insipids and the cats. None of them could hold a decent conversation about anything important to him. The notion of being shackled to one of them for eternity was repugnant.

He consoled himself by discovering the diversions that were available to a gentleman: Angelo's fencing academy, the Royal Society, and of course, White's gentlemen's club. These had seemed a revelation, and he began to think that if he could just get his aunt to arrange a marriage for him and forget the ballrooms, it might be tolerable.

Then his new life as a gentleman of society had all started to fall apart. He'd been oblivious to it when he'd first walked into White's that day. Men were always laughing and whispering there. It took him a while to register the fact that the susurrus started as he walked into a room. To check he wasn't imagining things, he walked into and out of the same room twice from different directions.

His cousin had clued him in. Darcy had been sitting alone, sipping a drink while he stared into space. Usually he thought about the changes he was making to Pemberley when he sat by himself, which was often. He would get out a notebook and start jotting down ideas with the pencil he carried in his pocket - a good Derbyshire pencil. But that day no ideas came, and he was relieved when Captain Richard Fitzwilliam finally arrived.

"You're late," Darcy said as Richard sat down. "I've been feeling very exposed sitting here without you."

"Sorry - had a problem on the parade ground I had to get sorted."

"Is it my imagination or are people talking about me?"

"They're talking. Don't get upset. These things happen all the time. Most of the fellows here get bored. Someone's put something in the betting book about you. Actually there are a few bets now. Basically they concern your virginity: when and how you'll lose it."

Darcy blushed red, both from mortification and anger.

"Don't show them you're annoyed," advised Richard. "It will make it worse."

"Do they always make such odious bets?"

"They're always betting about something, but it's usually something innocuous, like whether someone will ride a donkey backwards down St James Street."

"How do they know?" hissed Darcy. "Is it stamped on my head?"

He'd realised as soon as the words were out of his mouth - _Wickham_.

George Wickham was the bane of Darcy's life; the one fly in the ointment.

George's late father had been steward of the family estate, Pemberley, during the lifetime of Darcy's father. Indeed, his father held his steward in such affection that he had stood godfather to George, and treated him like a second son after Mr Wickham's untimely demise. Two years older than Darcy, George had unceasingly shown himself to be a fierce rival to Mr Darcy's own flesh and blood for his paternal affections, always getting the better of the younger boy in various contrived situations throughout their childhood.

A couple of days earlier Darcy had seen his childhood nemesis strutting up Bond Street, bowing and tipping his hat to the ladies who were shopping. He'd smirked when he saw Darcy, and now Darcy knew why. _Dammit! Wickham wasn't even a member of White's and he'd managed to infiltrate it!_

Darcy's uncle, Lord Geoffrey Fitzwilliam, had been furious when he'd discovered the bets, and had some terse words with some of his cronies who were participating. But the bets could not be removed, no matter their repugnant nature. It was a strict rule at White's.

Richard had suggested taking Darcy to an establishment he used in Pall Mall - just to get it over with; but Darcy had refused to have his life ordered by innuendo. He'd almost suggested to Richard that he should let it be known that he'd dallied with a country maid when he was fifteen, but he couldn't bring himself do it - disguise of any sort was his abhorrence. So Darcy stuck his nose in the air and avoided White's.

The situation had gone on for an intolerable month before that night at Lady Sefton's ball. All his favourite places had become anathema to him. Suddenly the men had turned into a bunch of cats like their female counterparts. He had retreated to the library of his townhouse, and was reduced to going to balls and soirées - the sort of functions he abhorred, just for the sake of social intercourse.

The din and the crowding in Lady Sefton's ballroom that night had been overwhelming. He'd gone out onto the terrace to clear his head. Hearing the rustle of silk skirts behind him, he'd braced himself for more simpering.

"A lovely night, isn't it?" said a sweet voice. "I'm always enchanted by a rainbow round the moon."

He turned sharply to see a beautiful woman.

"I don't believe we've been introduced," he said stiffly.

"Lady Diana Bellingham, Marchioness of Frensham."

She held out her hand.

He bowed over it but did not take it. He relaxed slightly, wondering where her husband was.

"And you are?" she twinkled at him.

"Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley."

"Of course, Mr Darcy. I _did_ know that, but we must obey the forms."

"Frensham," he said, reminding himself to be polite. "That is in Somerset, is it not?"

"Indeed, my husband's estate is renowned for its thoroughbreds."

He nodded his recognition.

"But excuse me for disturbing your reverie," she said, flourishing her fan. "I feel I am _de trop._"

He did not deny it.

"You must take tea with us in Berkeley Square sometime."

With a curtsey she had withdrawn, and he'd been grateful to have his solitude restored. So grateful, that when he'd walked out of Angelo's after braving that establishment two days later and found himself at a loose end, he'd wandered over to Berkley Square to pay a morning call.

The butler who took his hat, cane and card was a singular fellow with a broken nose and a cauliflower ear. He was so tall that Darcy had to look up to meet his eye - a rare experience for someone who generally had the advantage of his fellow men in height. His shoulders seemed to brush the edges of doorways.

Darcy had been ushered into a sitting room where he found the marchioness reading, accompanied only by a little dog. She was so elegantly dressed in silks that had she been wearing a wig, she might have been mistaken for Madame Pompadour.

The butler announced him and withdrew, closing the door. This move rather startled Darcy.

"I beg your pardon," said Darcy looking around. "Where is your companion?"

"Right here," she laughed, indicating the little dog which yapped in reply.

He looked anxiously at the door.

"Your husband cannot like me being alone with you."

"Do not worry Mr Darcy. He will not call you out. Please, will you have a game of chess with me?"

"I cannot like it in a closed room. Will you permit me to open the door?"

"Be my guest," she replied.

So they had their game of chess, which he had won, but not easily, while they talked of all manner of topics from astronomy to politics, and took tea. It was the first sensible conversation he'd had with a woman outside his family. Some other callers had come towards the end of the game, and he'd subsequently bid the marchioness adieu.

He had wandered back to Grosvenor Square quite pleased with himself, feeling he'd cleared some sort of social hurdle.

He'd called on the marchioness at the same time a week later, and once again, had been disconcerted when the butler closed the door. He'd gotten up to open it again, when he felt the lady's hand close on his.

"Leave it, Mr Darcy," she said. "I wish to talk to you."

"What of?"

"Do you know my husband, Mr Darcy?"

"I know of him."

"But you've never met him?"

"No."

"Then I gather you do not know that he met with an accident two years ago."

"He's dead?" he asked bluntly.

"No, Mr Darcy. He was thrown from a horse two years ago - a particularly nasty stallion I begged him not to ride. He lives at Stanyon now. He landed on an iron stake. It went up through his mouth and pierced his brain." She indicated this with her hand. "He has never been the same since: his mind has reverted to that of a child's, and it has affected his body also."

"I'm sorry," said Darcy. "I didn't know."

"I was hoping we might be able to come to some agreement, Mr Darcy."

"I don't understand."

"I believe that you are the victim of a cruel bet; several in fact, at White's."

"How do you know such things?"

"Word gets around, Mr Darcy. You should end this soon before it creeps into polite circles."

He nodded. It was the same advice Richard had given him weeks ago, but he was curious that her statement seemed to exclude herself from polite circles.

"I, on the other hand, am missing male companionship. Can you be discreet Mr Darcy?"

He swallowed, realising what she was offering, then nodded.

"Excellent," she said, taking him by the hand and leading him to a door. "Come with me."

Afterwards they'd discussed how they would end the betting. She was a very strategic thinker. She got him to discover the exact nature of the bets and who had placed them. They worked out who would profit by them, and how to end it in a way that was sufficiently unambiguous. For this purpose they chose Lord Verney. He was a friend of his uncle's who had a sense of humour. Verney had laid a counter bet in Darcy's favour, claiming he would lose his virginity on St Valentine's day. He had done it more as a means of ridiculing the whole farrago. The odds were enormous against him.

On an evening in February that was branded forever in his memory, Darcy walked into the club and sought out Verney who he found playing piquet. He dropped the used sheath into his brandy.

"You win," he said, and walked off.


	3. TU prologue: Ch 3

By the time Darcy had finished these musings he had arrived at his uncle's townhouse in Grosvenor Square. The butler showed him into the study where he found the earl puffing away on a cigar while he paced up and down. His cousin Richard, the earl's second son, was already present, leaning uneasily against the mantelpiece.

The earl rounded on them when the butler closed the door.

"I've summoned you both here to remind you that you need to get married."

The cousins exchanged a glance.

"Darcy you're twenty-eight and an only son. I don't object to you dipping your wick in Berkeley Square," he said stabbing his cigar at him, "but it's time you set up your nursery."

Darcy frowned at the earl's taproom language. _How had his uncle known? He thought he had been discreet..._

The earl rounded on his son. "Richard, you're thirty. Enough said."

"Why do _I_ need to get married?" persisted Richard.

"Because you're the spare, you dimwit," snarled his father.

"You seem to have forgotten that my brother is already married," retorted Richard.

"He's been married for ten years and has produced four daughters. My granddaughters may marry to preserve our name but they can't inherit the title. So you _will_ marry, and soon."

"Just because he has four daughters doesn't mean he can't have a son - the odds are even every time," complained Richard, displaying a fine understanding of stochastic processes.

"This is not a game of dice," returned the earl. "That is overly simplistic. I've seen this happen before. Some men are incapable of siring sons and I'm getting nervous. Both of you have six months to find a wife. _If_ in that time, you have _not_ found a woman to bear your children, I will find one for you. One of you can marry Anne de Bourgh for a start - that will keep Rosings in the family. Now get out. My mistress is waiting for me."

As the earl's butler ushered them out the front door, Richard vented his spleen.

"Bloody hell," he spewed, as he clanked down the stairs in his spurs, "it's like a game of musical chairs! Whoever hasn't found a wife in six months gets Anne!"

Darcy grunted his agreement. He was so incensed by his uncle's ultimatum that he felt an irrational urge to spite him by offering marriage to the first eligible female he encountered. As he was walking across Grosvenor Square, it occurred to him that this was not such a wild threat. Better if he walked down Bond Street where he might encounter the daughter of a Cit, or even better, a shopkeeper's daughter!

"What has precipitated all this?" Darcy asked savagely as they continued across the square to his own townhouse.

"Mother," replied Richard sadly.

"Why would she do such a thing?"

"She noticed I'm going bald."

"Nonsense," said Darcy. "You've still got a full head of hair."

"If you look closely you'll see there's a bald patch on my crown the size of a shilling."

Darcy discreetly affirmed it was true. "Good Lord!"

"Thank you! I feel _so_ much better!" sneered Richard.

When they reached Darcy's townhouse they were informed that his friend Charles Bingley was waiting in the parlour. Darcy was decidedly not in the mood for socialising, even with his affable friend, but he could hardly kick him out.

Charles stood as soon as Richard and Darcy entered the parlour. He saw with some misgiving that Darcy appeared to be in a black mood.

"Forgive me, Darcy," said Charles, "I have some exciting news and your butler said he expected you imminently."

"Not a problem, Charles," said Darcy, rearranging his features into the customary mask he wore outside his own domicile. "Come into the study. Richard and I were about to have a brandy."

Suitably ensconced in Darcy's den of industry the cousins sipped their brandy while Bingley delivered his news.

"I think I've found a suitable estate. It's in Hertfordshire - so close enough to allow me to manage my investments in London, and permit Caroline to travel back and forward between myself and the Hursts. The house is grand enough to satisfy Caroline, and the rent seems reasonable."

"Excellent, Bingley!" said Darcy who had been encouraging his friend to lease before he made a purchase. "It sounds just the thing!"

"But I'm still not sure," said Bingley. "I am in no position to judge the land or the improvements. I was hoping you might be able to spend a day going over the estate with me before I signed."

Darcy frowned. "I'm sorry Bingley, I'm dealing with a bit of a crisis at the moment."

"That's all right, Darcy," replied Bingley affably. "I didn't wish to impose upon you. I guess I'll have to stand on my own two feet sometime..."

Now Darcy felt guilty.

"Perhaps..." said Darcy.

Bingley leant forward eagerly.

"Can you wait a week?" asked Darcy. "I'd really like to help, but there is something I need to attend to."

"Thank you, thank you, my friend," said Bingley gratefully, grabbing Darcy's hand. "Let me know when you're available and I will arrange it all."

They finished their brandy.

When Bingley got up to go, the colonel, who was committed to a regimental dinner, accompanied him; and Darcy was left to his own musings.

* * *

Darcy spent a troubled night. He had retired at ten, as was his habit, and spent an hour staring at the canopy of his bed. When sleep was elusive, he'd removed to the library where he could not find a single book that inspired him to open its covers. He then spent another hour pacing up and down, practising arguments he might employ with Diana to change her mind. Finally, he built up the fire and resorted to the brandy.

On the following morning, his valet found him asleep in a wing chair wearing his banyan. Cautiously moving around the room while he set it in order, Finn finally decided to rouse his unresponsive master by cracking a blind.

Darcy woke with a jerk. "Goodness, what time is it Finn?"

"Ten, sir. I thought you would not wish to miss your fencing practise."

"Damn, the fencing practise! I must look my best!"

Finn knew better than to raise an eyebrow at this.

After Darcy had bathed, Finn had shaved and attired him to a nicety. Dismissing his valet, Darcy retrieved the box he had purchased last week at Rundall and Bridge. Opening it, he stared upon the jewels he had specially commissioned for his love's thirty-fifth birthday. It was a necklace and earring set composed of emeralds and diamonds which had cost him a small fortune. He had chosen the emeralds to complement her beautiful auburn hair. Snapping the case shut, he proceeded down the stairs.

He had sensed Diana's increasing restlessness over the last few months, but attributed it to her approaching birthday. She had obliquely referred to her increasing age several times, and he had assumed that the midpoint of her thirties was some sort of mid-life crisis for her. He could not understand it. She was as beautiful as ever - more so. The portrait in the hall which had been executed upon her marriage to the marquis showed a younger and more rounded face, but the intervening fourteen years had only better defined her cheekbones. She was exquisite, and he had sought to show his appreciation by commissioning jewels worthy of her beauty.

As he was helped into his coat in the vestibule, he slipped the case into a commodious inner pocket; pulling out the notebook which resided there and laying it on the hall table. The jewels were a fitting tribute to their first seven years, and now, he hoped, the beginning of a new phase of their relationship.

Her husband had died over a year ago. Of course, there had been some nasty rumours that her stepson had smothered his father in his sleep, but Darcy did not credit them. It was a sad tale, and the gossips always indulged their fancy for the gothic in such cases. The marquis had only lived a half-life since his accident, and it was a mercy to both him and his heir that he had moved on. _Rest in peace._ She had worn full mourning in public for a year. No husband could have expected better observance.

He walked briskly towards Berkeley Square, ruing his reaction of yesterday. He had responded like the unseasoned youth he had been seven years ago rather than a man of the world. He should have stayed there until he had persuaded her that she was making a mistake instead of going off to his uncle's. He had ever been punctilious, never missing an appointment. Overly concerned with his duty, he had not given the crisis the attention it merited.

"Damn the duke!" he muttered under his breath as he rounded the corner into Berkeley Square. _I was in line first!_

If he had known he had a rival, Darcy reasoned, he would have moved faster. He had not wished to impose upon Diana too soon after she came out of mourning. Her birthday had seemed the ideal date to move things forward.

He knew as soon as Leith opened the door that he wasn't going to let him in. "The marchioness is indisposed today, Mr Darcy."

He choked back his indignation. "You know I must see her Leith," said Darcy, calling on all his natural hauteur.

"You know I can't allow that Mr Darcy. I'm sorry," said the bruiser with quiet dignity.

"Then let me in so I can leave her a note."

The butler did not hesitate to accede to Mr Darcy's request - Darcy was generally a man of his word, but sometimes emotions got the better of any man... In such an event he knew he could bustle Darcy out the door in a trice, if need be. He was taller and heavier than the younger man and had considerable experience in the boxing ring to draw on. He knew Darcy didn't spend time at Jackson's boxing saloon - like gentlemen of old, he favoured swords and pistols instead.

Darcy put down his cane and leant over the hall table to inscribe the note. He wanted to propose in person, not in a letter, so after a moment's thought he simply wrote:-

_With all my love. Happy Birthday. D_

Then he sealed the note, withdrew the box from his coat, and placing the missive atop it, handed it solemnly to the butler before taking his leave.

Frustrated, he walked back to Grosvenor Square, wondering when it would be deemed polite to call again. Arriving back at his townhouse, he locked the door to his study, and buried himself in his business affairs.

* * *

He waited for three days for a reply. Finally, a footman brought a parcel to his desk around evening. It was wrapped in brown paper, tied in black ribbon with a sprig of rosemary tucked inside it. Darcy paled when he recognised the shape of the jewellery case.

The ribbon was knotted tightly, and in his impatience to open it he picked up the Venetian stiletto his father had used as a book knife.

Snapping open the case, he saw the letter sitting on top of the parure and quickly broke the seal.

_Dear F_

_Thank you for your kind thoughts on my birthday._

_I was married yesterday at St George's by special licence._

_Obviously I cannot keep your beautiful gift._

_Accept my best wishes for your future happiness_

_With a woman who is worthy of your heart._

_D._

His first wild impulse was to plunge the dagger that lay to hand into his heart, but sanity prevailed, and he flicked the wicked object off his desk with the back of his hand.

He jumped up and started pacing back and forth as the daylight faded.

Once the light had leeched out of the study, he moved stealthily into the dimly lit hall and let himself out of the front door, pulling it closed behind him. He ran down the front steps and sprinted across the square under cover of darkness.

Reaching the footpath on the other side, he slowed to a more acceptable pace as a link boy came up to him. He flicked him a coin, directing him to Berkley Square, and when they entered their destination, dismissed him with another coin.

He walked alone in semi-darkness along the street, his progress lit only by the light escaping from the other townhouses. The marquis' townhouse was shrouded in darkness. Halfway up the steps he perceived the knocker was off the door.

He realised belatedly that he had lost her. This townhouse now belonged to the new marquis, and he would not find her there anymore. She was Bertie Thomas's property now and he must accept that.

A heavy weight settled in his stomach as he wandered off unthinkingly towards St James. Nearing White's, he could not go in, and he passed to the other side of the street to avoid the bow window. At some point he noticed the same link boy was following him at a discreet distance and he acknowledged the futility of it all.

Darcy realised he was quite lost. The street he was in was unfamiliar to him in the darkness. He tossed the boy another coin. One hand released the torch and flew out to snatch it deftly.

A silence stretched between them before the boy ventured, "Grosvenor Square, sir?"

"Yes," he replied hoarsely, in a voice quite unrecognisable as his own.

**As promised there is a TimesUPdates Pinterest board including the theme song for this prologue, _Love is like oxygen_ by The Sweet.**

**2/4/16 I can't believe its been over a year since I started posting _Time's Up_ but at a chapter a week it adds up. Makes you so conscious as an older author that you only have a few stories left in you. Thanks to those who provided constructive reviews, particularly Sgordon who provided the final ingredient. **

**I am currently preparing _Time's Up_ for publication. **

**So long, and thanks for all the fish! I mean, of course, reviews.**

**If you were following the story, stay tuned. I have no current plans for a sequel, but I may yet post some outtakes and other stories, as I am currently doing for _Via Luton._ One idea is to tell the story of the romance between Anne de Bourgh and Dr Douglas but I'm open to other suggestions,**

**Cheers, Fred.**


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